


A Name By Any Other

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bridging Relationships, Catharsis, Father/Daughter Relationship, Father/Daughter Reunion, Gen, Reconciliation, Repairing Broken Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For better or for worse,” her voice whispers soft and gentle in his ear, arms holding him close and secure, “your name has, and always will, mean <em>Father</em> to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Name By Any Other

**Author's Note:**

> The follow-up reconciliation after Iris and Jim's fight in "Tempest" - I think they're slowly making progress. Eventually, they'll end up on the same page. :)

_“Because I love him.”_

How many times has he heard those words? How many times did she insist on it, swear to it, implore him just shy of on bended knee, and he refused to listen? How many times did they have the same fight, exchange the same words, come back in the same full circle…and nothing? The words went in one ear and slipped out the other, and not a single one managed to stick. Until now.

_“Life without him in it means nothing to me.”_

He supposes this explains her refusal to leave the city, all those months ago— _has it been nearly a year now?_ —when she had the chance. And yet…it doesn’t. It doesn’t, because he can’t comprehend it. 

He’s been sitting in his apartment, alone, maybe for an hour or maybe all night, seeking answers in glasses of cheap brandy, whiskey, and whatever else happens to be lying around from the last time he hosted Harvey for “bonding time”, and no revelations have yet to occur. Harvey always seems to do his best thinking when drunk. Maybe it’s an acquired skill. Or maybe he’s not drinking enough. Or maybe it’s just Harvey being Harvey.

_“He is my fiancé. Very soon, he will be my husband.”_

Fiancé. Husband. He tosses back two more shots, then lets the glass spiral from his limp fingers as he drops the hand to his knee and clenches down, hard. It’s supposed to be his dream, isn’t it? A father’s greatest delight, when his daughter shows him her ring and how it sparkles in the light, and then prattles on and on about how in love she is and all the wonderful plans they have for the wedding and…

 _Great job, Gordon_ , he huffs, pours another drink, and throws it back, _You’re a shining example of fatherhood. Bet every other father gets in a screaming match with his daughter too._

Who is he even kidding? _Father…_ he’s no more her father than Marcus DeLaine was.

_“I love him.”_

She loves him. Iris—his daughter, his only child, the only child he’s ever had to call his own—loves Victor Zsasz. And does Zsasz return her devotion, her love, her adoration?

_“Iris and I grew up in the same world. In another time, we could have met much sooner.”_

A world of wealth and glamor, of petty concerns and first-world problems; of sparkling jewels and extravagant parties. A world where one couple can love each other and love their offspring with all their hearts, another can despise each other and orphan their only child with a handful of bullets, and somehow both children still meet on a cold winter night under the worst circumstances imaginable…then walk away. Or rather, walk together, henceforth, society’s view be damned to Hell and back.

_“She did the impossible. The unthinkable.”_

Jim pours two more shots of brandy, throwing them back too fast, too close together. His vision swims. Tears, or the alcohol? Maybe both.

_“She made the monster fall in love. With her.”_

What is he to think? For all the splendor and privilege of Zsasz’s upbringing—presuming his words are to be believed—he’s as engrained and entrenched in the worst parts of Gotham as humanly possible. Maybe a little more. And Iris…Iris was supposed to be the miracle, the one rescued from a horrific upbringing, living proof that something clean and pure can be brought out of the shadows. To him, she still is. Even tonight, seeing her in that place, in that world, she was still pure, a soft and elegant beacon.

So _what_ is a man to think? How does the Devil incarnate and a figure of such battered innocence come together, as one, lovers united against all others? How? Why? Is Zsasz not all he seems…? _No._ No, most definitely not; he refuses to give that man any credit towards decency or a moral center. So what remains? _Iris._ But what father—by blood or by paper—ever wants to imagine his daughter to be less angel and more demon at her core?

The next drink finishes off the whiskey. He stands, to toss the bottle into his trash bin, and the room promptly tilts at a ninety-degree angle. His outstretched hand misses the armchair. He sways, stumbles in place three times, and finally collapses to the floor with a resounding _thud_ that probably woke up half his neighbors. He blinks, twice, then once more. It doesn’t change anything. The room is still spinning, this way one minute, that way the next. _Damn it._ How much has he had to drink…?

The empty whiskey bottle lolling across the floor and the half-empty brandy still on the coffee table answers that question. He tries to find balance again with one hand, but his palm slips and slides in the spilled whiskey remnants. His arm glides forward, too fast, and he hits the floor again, too hard. The room slowly narrows under a closing lens. Then it all goes black.

***

Cracking a safe is an intimate affair, and it’s one Selina Kyle knows very well. If the safe was a human being, she might even go so far as to consider them lovers, for as often and as in-depth as she breaches the boundaries of metal and steel with nothing but her bare hands.

The real rush isn’t found in pressing her ear to cold steel, setting her fingers atop a circular lock, and twisting, turning, listening, waiting for the final _click_ to announce its completion. The true rush, the ultimate source of adrenaline, is in the audience. The people loitering just outside the door, or down below, or sometimes—when she feels particularly daring, or possibly suicidal, depending on how one looks at it—in the next room.

Tonight, it’s the latter: four different voices, speaking to one another and amongst themselves in intervals, and she’s sure there is a fifth silent partner yet to make his presence known. When the lock gives the telling _click_ , her suspicions are confirmed: Penguin’s voice finally breaks through the chatter. She remains perfectly still, refusing to move or even breathe, because when the Penguin speaks, no one else does. One voice does not an appropriate cover make.

So she holds her stance, holds two fingers in a gap between frame and door that’s barely half an inch in length, and listens with baited breath. She hears Penguin talk of many things, and many people. Jim Gordon. Butch Gilzean. Members of the Russian mafia she’s only just coming to learn by sight and sound. And then Zsasz, who Penguin refers to as a “toothless mutt” on Iris’ leash. Well, he doesn’t call Iris by name, but it’s easy enough to guess the identity of the “insolent little brat” who has managed to get under the bird’s skin.

Selina’s jaw locks a little, but she maintains composure. Getting emotional only leads to disaster. She can’t and _will not_ blow this.

Finally, the others break into simultaneous discussion. Everyone talks at once. It’s very loud, and she likes loud. _Loud_ masks the soft creak of hinges as she negotiates a safe door open—not all the way, because that leads to more noise—wriggles a hand inside, and blindly searches for her prize. She finds it, bare fingers brushing the slick texture of faux leather, and clutches it like a cat does a mouse. She has it halfway out when the conversation stops, and so does she. On the other side of the door, she hears footsteps.

Her mind rushes into calculations. Most preferable scenario: the footsteps aren’t coming any closer, it’s just a few guys getting up to stretch, and she can wait until they either leave or she has the cover of loud conversation to finish the job and make her exit as silently as she made her entrance. Absolute worst case scenario: the door is about to open, she’s about to be spotted, and her only remaining option is to rip the bag from the safe, toss herself out the window, and run like the Devil was on her heels.

Is there a middle ground? She should be so lucky.

The footsteps come closer, shuffling, weight heavier on one leg than the other, and her fingers tighten around the bag. Every limb, every nerve, is tensing. She can feel the rush of adrenaline bubbling up in her veins, tingling them to life. Fight or flight, and flight will win this round. Her lungs clench tight in her chest, allowing minimum gasps of breath, because breathing is not nearly as important as surviving to tell the tale.

The door handle groans under the weight of a clenching hand, and her legs lock, ready to hurl her through solid glass if needed…and then a voice on the other side calls out for their boss, informing him there’s a call downstairs. Silence follows, and then footsteps again. Only this time, they’re walking away.

She pulls the bag free, eases the little door back in place, waits for the office door to click before securing the safe again with a similar sound, and quickly stuffs the bag down her jacket front for secure transportation. It leaves her with an unattractive bulge at one side, but this is no time to preen.

Once she’s four rooftops away, the early morning air cold on her face and the bitter smell of the city barely a waft on the breeze, she relaxes. Not too much and not for too long; just a moment to stretch the iron-rod tension from her limbs and breathe deeply. That was too close, too risky, and it almost went sideways. Very, very sideways.

But that’s what makes it fun.

***

She slips through the office window and is promptly tackled by an enthusiastic mass of white fur and growing claws. The carpet suddenly feels much too thin against her back, when she hits it at about twenty miles an hour. Shakta’s purrs rumble deep from her chest as she smothers Selina in fur and insistent affection like a neglected kitten. This display was both cute and tolerable a few months back; presently, it’s still cute, but lacking in the “tolerable” department.

“My love,” Iris’ voice gently chides from some far corner, “you are no longer a cub. _Idi syuda._ ”

It takes her five minutes to brush clean of white hair and the sticky residue of a hot tongue on her cheek, all while Iris watches with amusement from her desk. They’re alone in the office, which is a curious thing, and Selina finally asks the obligatory question once she no longer feels saliva across her face.

“Butch is working.” Iris answers. “Dimitri and Peter are attending a birthday party for their mother. Victor…” her voice trails, throat clenching around his name, and then she sighs, “Victor needed to relieve some tension after last night.”

She chooses to not inquire further as to how Victor Zsasz relieves tension. “Maybe this’ll cheer you up.” She says, unzipping her jacket without shame—they’re both girls here, and she is wearing a black strip of cotton to preserve some modesty—and retrieving the little bag. Just for humor’s sake, she dips into a dramatic bow and presents it like one would a fine silver platter. It works.

“ _Merci, mon petite_.” Iris smiles, taking the bag and opening the clasp with an idle flourish before perusing its’ contents. Selina watches, while blue eyes make silent calculations, and then the older woman settles back in her chair. “Where was it?”

Finally, her time to boast and brag and shine. “In the safe.” She zips the jacket to mid-bust, then sets both hands on neatly cocked hips. “With Penguin and four of his guys in the other room.”

Iris makes an amused comment about her having a taste for danger—she doesn’t know the half of it…or maybe she does—then closes the bag and secures it in her desk drawer. Sometimes Selina wonders what else she keeps in there. Maybe, one day, she’ll ask.

The phone rings, loudly, and disturbs Shakta from her nap under the desk. Iris soothes her with an idle stroke before answering the call. Her relaxed demeanor dissolves like boiling water. “Edward? What is it?”

_Edward?_

“No, that is not necessary.” Iris says, then repeats the same words with more bite than gentility in the next breath. “I will take care of it myself. Thank you.”

“Old friend?” Selina asks, at a loss for better words. Iris’ brisk nod indicates there is much more to the story— _isn’t there always?_ —but, seeing how Iris is currently standing and making a sharp path to the foyer, now is clearly not the time for telling tales.

“I will be back as soon as permitted.” Iris tells her, slipping into her patent leather coat and fastening the buttons with nimble speed. “Stay safe.”

“And if your betrothed comes back before you?”

“Tell him the truth.” The answer is blunt, as though there was never a question on the matter. “It will be an experiment in how effective our conversation was.”

Selina watches, silently, as the elder takes her leave. Sometimes she thinks a relationship is more trouble than it’s worth.

***

Some people have wonderful dreams, of places far away from pits of dead hopes, corruption, rotted decay and sickness more pervasive than the plague, where they lie on warm sandy beaches and soak the sun in their cells. Others are permanently held captive by nightmares, enslaved to the sins on their soul, and waking to a cold grey sky and another day of fighting an uphill battle is a reprieve compared to the horrors conceived from unconscious memory.

If there was a time when Jim’s dreams were the former—and he thinks they must have been, somehow, some time—he no longer can remember. He dreams now of shapeless beings with eyes bright and teeth sharp, hands like claws, reaching out, reaching up, catching hold of him and pulling, ripping, clutching mercilessly, until there is nothing left of him. A chain locks tight around his throat, strangling any breaths that are not commanded from him. There is blood around him. There is blood on his hands. Is it his? Does it belong to someone else, one of the many bodies that lie lifeless at his feet? Whose? Who has he destroyed this time? What innocent life has he taken?

A voice calls to him from above. _Who?_ A kindly spirit sent to steal him from this miserable life? The self-crowned king who owns him? A God he’s all-but forgotten to exist?

“ _James!_ ”

A stinging blow whips across his face half a second after his name erupts through the stillness, and his head snaps to the left. Wood floors that smell of stale booze and week-old polish meet his other cheek; heat blossoms to the other one, the skin red and hot and still burning from the blow. His hand clumsily reaches for his belt, for his gun, and finds nothing. Where is his gun?

The table. He put his gun and badge on the table, beside his apartment door, when he came in…last night? This morning? _When?_

“James!” the same hand decks him again, and this one punches a groan past his lips. Sunlight hits his eyes even through closed lids, and the realm of consciousness abruptly drags him away from dark dreams and nightmarish visions.

“Seriously, Iris?” he groans, again, rubbing a hand over his stinging cheek. “What was that for?”

He regrets the question almost as soon as it drops from his lips. She gives him a look that could freeze molten lava. “We will just say, for many unmentionable things.” Her nose wrinkles with a sharp scowl. “God in Heaven, you _reek_. How much…?”

Her eyes dart to the floor, then to the coffee table, then she promptly straightens up to snatch the discarded bottles in both hands. “Really, James? _Really?_ ”

“Your yelling isn’t helping my headache.”

Her nostrils flare briefly, and she mutters something in a language he can’t understand. She marches into the kitchen, heels clicking furiously across the floor. He hears both bottles drop in the trash with a resounding _thunk_ , then her heels click back to him. There’s barely a pause before both hands are on him, scooped under the shoulders, and yank him upright. He’s not prepared for the change in position, and sways wildly with feet unsteady under him. Iris grumbles in the same language again, and this time he’s quite confident she’s cursing at him. Or maybe just cursing him.

With one eye half open, he vaguely makes out the path she takes him: from the living room and down the hallway, around two corners—or is it three?—and then she pushes him up against a wall, or a door, or something. He hears water running.

“Get undressed.” She says, turning on her heel and proceeding to walk out the door. “Get in the shower. I will be waiting for you in the kitchen area.”

“Iris—”

“Get going.” She snaps, shoving him in the vague direction of running water. The door slams closed behind him, and her heels click away, back down the hall. Then silence.

The first spurt of water to hit his face is cold. _Ice_ cold. He groans and stumbles backwards into the far shower wall, running a hand frantically over his face and sputtering out the chilled droplets. Let it never be said Iris doesn’t have a wicked sense of humor.

A few twists to the dials calms his exited nerves, warms the water, and he can finally relax under the stream. Over the water rushing around his ears, there’s the faint clink and clack of objects being moved in the kitchen. A few seconds later, the aroma of something warm and rich wafts through the vents. His stomach growls, loudly.

…How many times did she offer to make him dinner? Or breakfast? How many times did she leave at shift’s end, and promise him something special for the evening’s meal? And how many times did he promise to be home for dinner and an evening with her…then proceeded to blow it?

 _Too many._ And now…

He pulls on the first clothes he can find: a T-shirt and sweatpants. Hardly the look of a professional member of law enforcement, but it’s now half past ten in the morning, he’s suffering from a wicked hangover, he hasn’t called in, and tomorrow he will either be allowed back with a hefty lecture or finally canned for good. He doesn’t care how he looks right now.

Iris is at the stove, coat tossed over his couch, sleeves rolled up, hair gathered messily atop her head. Something is simmering in a pot, and with it, the wafting scent of stew fills his kitchen. He recognizes this one: a rich Italian recipe she would often make for dinner, then tuck away in the refrigerator when he failed to come home, time and time again.

She nods to her right, at two slices of warm bread, buttered lightly, next to a tall glass of water. “Start putting that in your stomach.” She instructs. “The soup will be ready soon.”

“It smells…delicious.” The words stick in his throat, to the roof of his mouth, and they linger too long and too heavy in the air. This is supposed to be something natural, something normal. This is supposed to be a perfectly common exchange between father and child. Instead, it’s an awkward and stilted attempt at conversation, with the bitterness of their previous exchange weighing thick in the air.

He isn’t surprised when she says nothing in response. The silence falls flat between them like a lead weight. Finally, he takes three long drinks of water, two bites of bread, and leans against the counter. The bread gives him something to do with his mouth, but it’s stinted, stiff, and generally unpleasant. The only sounds breaking the silence are Iris’ stirring and the quiet sounds of him chewing. 

This is not how their life was supposed to be. Theirs was supposed to be a life of fun and laughter, taking road trips, going on vacations, growing close together, creating memories to be shared later on, when she’s older and married to a good man and has a lap full of sweet, cherub-faced babies. Why… _how_ did this all go so wrong?

“You blame Victor, and only Victor for this, James. All of this.” She stares down at the thick concoction in her pot, stirring slowly, absently. “Has it ever occurred to you…I was born this way? I was just born _broken_?”

And there it is: the cold truth that has always been lingering at the back of his head, in the back of his every waking thought and more than a few dreams; the one he’s always tried to avoid, ignore, push aside with the insistence it wouldn’t be that way, the constant reassurance he could and would save her. Ignorance is bliss, but he’s never been ignorant. He walked in on that scene, seven years ago, looked at the cast-off sprayed across two walls, the bloody pools staining pristine white carpet a muddy brown color, and the two bodies lying in the middle of it all. And then, at the foot of the stairs, a hollow shell—not even a child—staring blankly at the walls, the floors, anything but the people around her.

It had been so easy to feed himself his own lie, stuff it down his throat, swallow it whole…but the truth was never too far away. It was always there. Like a parasite under the skin, burrowing deeper and deeper. But he’d tried to ignore it. Fought against it. Refused to acknowledge it’s presence beyond a minor annoyance.

And what had the last seven years given him as a result? A broken, damaged, fragmented excuse for a relationship, with a daughter who would never truly be his. Why? Because while he spent seven years trying to save her, someone else was in the background, at her side, always in her life, while he was nothing but a faint shadow at the back of her mind.

“I never wanted to believe you were beyond saving, Iris.” He finally whispers; the bread now tastes stale and dry, and he puts it aside on the plate. “To believe it…felt like I was just someone else giving up on you.”

“It has nothing to do with giving up on me, James.” She slowly turns, propping herself on one side. “It is simply a matter of accepting the truth. I am broken. I was born broken. And…I cannot be repaired.”

He feels the tears burn at the back of his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“James,” her hand reaches out, cupping one side of his face, “broken things are not without their use. People once sought out broken pottery, cast away in rubbish heaps, because they made the best lanterns. The light would pour through the cracks, as natural as can be, and it would illuminate the entire house.”

The imagery releases tears in thick, warm, salty streams. Cracked pottery, tossed out like garbage, retrieved by someone who saw its’ usefulness and hidden glory, now letting the light shine through in radiant beams. Pure. Beautiful. Perfect amidst imperfections. And all this time…he couldn’t see it.

“I’m sorry.” His voice falls in cracked, hoarse, unsteady gasps of air, and the tears come like rain. What is he sorry for? _Everything._ For failing to understand—for failing to _try_ and understand. For never being the father she needed because he was too damn focused on being the hero she didn’t need. For being weak. For letting his moral compass go so far astray that the needle is permanently damaged and the glass is shattered and the whole damn thing will probably never work again. For failing her. For being the worst kind of failure. For… “Oh God, Iris, I’m so sorry.”

She catches him mid-fall. Her arms are much stronger than he remembers…than he ever gave her credit for. His hands clutch at her arms, holding tight, and through the tears he sees the light dancing off her ring. Within the blurred veil, it just looks like scattered stars of varying color and radiance. Stars, dancing across her finger, playing before his eyes.

“For better or for worse,” her voice whispers soft and gentle in his ear, arms holding him close and secure, “your name has, and always will, mean _Father_ to me.”


End file.
